Metamorphosis

"You have to."

"But I don't want to."

The chant starts up again. You're a baby scaredy cat. You're a baby scaredy cat. 

"I am NOT a baby scaredy cat!" 

"Are too."

"Am not."

"Then why won't you do it?" Choruses of yeahs follow like a pack of hyenas. 

"Because."

"Cause what."

"Because…” Draw it out long, turn the word into 5 syllables rolling around your tongue. "Because my mom said I had to be home."

"Liar, you don't even know what time it is." 

"Do too. My mom said to be home in 30 minutes."

"Liar. Baby scaredy cat." The chant starts up like a fever again. Rings around and around, louder and louder.

"I'm not scared!"

"K. Well, that's good, cause we don't want to hang out with scared babies. So, you gonna do it?"

Another voice, stoking the fire: "Yeah, are you? Cause you're 12 now. We all done it when we turned 12."

"Yeah," a third, high-pitched descant, "we all done it easy." The word easy catches like a spark on dry timber. It's combustible in the summer heat. Little fires burning now, higher and higher. The heat intensifies. Easy. Easy. Easy. 

A hand thrusts out the jar again. The not-quite-frog-not-still-tadpole is alien. Long tailed, bulbous in front. Tiny legs pressed against the glass. If it were a frog it could leap out of the jar. But it's not. It floats in the watery prison, evolution suspended. You have no idea how they found it. Luck, probably. You've never seen anything but the tadpole or the frog before. Nothing in between. 

"So?" The word cuts through the forest fire of easy, easy, easy. "All you gotta do is go into Mrs. Skinner’s garden and kill it and carve your name on the big tree. Then you'll be in the 12 club.” 

Mrs. Skinner has spikes on her fence and bulging eyes that look in two different directions. Kind of like the almost-frog. She smells like wet newspaper and toilet brush. She talks out loud to no one. Her garden is full of brambly long things that reach out like fingers and twist around other dying things. The tree stands out in the centre of the large garden like a black tower, solid and choked with vines. You firmly believe it would choke you too if you get too close, let alone sacrifice a frog-thing at its roots and carve into its trunk. Who knows what Mrs. Skinner would do. You look around once again at the faces surrounding you, these courageous superhumans who have crossed the bridge of 12 and Mrs. Skinner's garden. 

You bite down and reach out for the jar. 

Mrs. Skinner’s curtain twitches, you're sure. 

The frog-thing sloshes in the jar as you turn and run, the voices screaming "baby scaredy cat" after you. Shame floods you as you turn the corner. You do not belong. Tears are stinging and splatter out, messy. You are a baby scaredy cat. The shame is ringing in your ears now as you stumble half blind with tears up the stairs to the porch, remembering only as you pull the handle of the front door that you're clutching the frog jar. 

You find it a spot hidden between the rusted motorbike your dad never came back for and the big cardboard box of his clothes your mom keeps saying she's going to throw out and never does. Its bugging eyes look a little panicked, but it sinks to the bottom of the jar and sits there. It's hard to imagine this half-transformed blob looking like it belongs anywhere. More shame rushes into you as you leave it there to fend for itself and go indoors. 

"What's wrong?" 

You want to say: nothing. Your mom looks like she's just tired and sticky enough to believe you. Your little sister is carefully pulling out the hair from her baby doll in the middle of the kitchen floor. 

Instead, the shame tears can't resist the invitation. The bubble in your throat explodes and suddenly you're choking on too many words running over each other, trying to spit them out so you can breathe again. Your mom catches "scaredy-cat, don't want to, friends, only one". Not much else. Your nose is crying now too. Your sister's doll is face down on the floor, her hands clutched around your legs. Your entire world is centred on the soft, salty scent of your mom's summer skin as she holds you close against her heart and strokes your head. She tells you how brave you are. How proud she is of you. How other kids don't matter, you're growing into your greatness. Your little sister squeezes your knees too tight.

It's after midnight when you wake up. The moon must be full. You forgot to close the curtains and the room is so bright you have to check the clock to be sure it's not early morning. You remember the frog thing on the porch, as out of place as a man on the moon. It must be lonely. 

Drunk on dreams and moonlight, you're not afraid anymore.

It's only a few quick minutes until you're dressed and sneaking down the stairs. You know where the telltale creaks are to avoid. Another two minutes see you out of the house, down the street, frog jar wrapped under your arm. It's cool in the night air, and the buggy little eyes are alert. The tiny legs and arms propel it around and around the tight space, as if it's either revving up towards an explosion or unravelling into self-destruction.

Mrs. Skinner's garden is a jungle of shadows and bright light. You feel a silver spotlight as you navigate around the fence. The spikes glimmer evil, but the gate — you catch yourself in a tiny laugh — is totally without a lock. The grind of metal as it opens squeals out into the night, but in the space between heartbeats you realize no one is listening. Whatever you're doing, you're doing alone. 

There's a sort of pond at the back, under a mess of branches. Not very deep, maybe half a foot, but it's the best you can do. You bring the jar up to your face and check once more. The almost-frog looks a little more frog-like. It might be your imagination. But the legs are strong and the tail seems a bit less like a tail. The almost-frog is ready. You tilt the jar into the pond and it rushes out and disappears into the black ink water. You wait a few minutes. You imagine perhaps a last moment of solidarity or recognition, like you’d see in a kid’s movie or a cartoon. It doesn't come up again.

The moon shapes are creeping across the grass. Time is moving faster than you expected. You steal across to the black tower tree, and pull out the kitchen knife you brought. Crouching low, you look for the spot to induct your initials into the club with the others.

One, two, three times around the tree. Pushing aside ivy, fingers testing the bark for telltale marks, for foreign signatures.

Four times around, then five. The obliging silver moonlight spreads up the tree. You bend down closer, trawling with eyes and hands for the spot. 

Nothing. No rites have been completed, no frog-things have been sacrificed. You hear the burning chants from earlier wash over you and drown in the cool night air. Then, you grip the knife harder, and carve. Rough, unfamiliar movement. The gashes stand out strong against the dark of the tree, JF. The first footstep on the moon.

You sit back a moment, then lean in again and carve your little sister's initials too. An insurance policy, in case when it's her turn, someone comes and checks. But you know they won't. 

You unfurl yourself and stand up. It might be your imagination, but your legs feel a little taller, your back a little stronger. It's only a few strides across the lawn and you're back outside the gate, looking in. You didn't want to. But you did. 

A loud croak echoes out from the pond corner. You close the gate firm and turn for home.